


Blood and Glory

by WinterDusk



Series: If, Just Maybe [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Young!Loki, Young!Thor, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 19:49:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20895167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterDusk/pseuds/WinterDusk
Summary: AU of Loki and Thor’s past.Thor’s not the smart one in their family.  It’s fairly evident who is.  But sometimes that just means people hide less from him…Can be read as a standalone.





	Blood and Glory

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for some rather unhelpful world views linked to a warrior culture.

There is blood _everywhere_.

At least, that’s certainly how it seems to Thor. No matter how hard he presses his hands down on the pulsing wound, he can’t seem to make it _stop_.

“If I pointed out that I’ll need the bones later, would you loosen up a little?” Loki’s face is white; a ghastly shade that surely shouldn’t come from anyone with red blood. And his attempt at humour is… misguided… to say the least.

“You need the blood _now_.” Thor snaps. “Where the hel’s the healer?”

“Coming.” Sif’s eyes don’t stray from the treeline as she speaks. Don’t once flick down to her friend and her prince, injured on the ground. Rather her hands are full with a spear even longer than she is tall; body angled to initiate attack.

More blood’s running out over Thor’s hands; flooding through the wadded up tunic he’s trying to hold in place; spilling into the already-damp winter ground. “Not coming fast enough.”

Loki is trying to smile at him. Coughs instead which – Norns! – Thor wishes he wouldn’t do, because he can _feel_ his brother’s arm shift unnaturally as he does; the bone clearly split through, the flesh hideously shorn. “That is not very reassuring.”

Speaking, he sounds cocky. But Thor knows him better than that; can see the fear lurking in his eyes. And if Thor’s too ignorant to judge for sure how dangerous this situation is, then Loki’s a thousand times more brilliant and almost certainly _knows_ just how fatal such a wound could prove to be.

It’s only been a minor border skirmish. Loki’s first. And Thor had been keeping him _close_, curse it!

It wasn’t meant to play out like this.

#

The healer, Hlifthrasa, manages to get Loki stabilised somewhere outside of the Vanaheim village. Thor’s not exactly certain what she’s done, but it’s certainly not been enough to do more than patch Loki up, ready for the journey on to better healers; a more complete ward. Seidr, pulsing and entwined, flows around Loki’s shoulder, presumably holding it together.

Hlifthrasa looks nervous, then passes Loki a bowl of fluid. “This will help with the blood loss.”

Loki’s good hand’s shaking too much to hold the bowl steady. “The spells might interfere with-”

Hels! But Thor forgets how much of a know-it-all his baby brother can be at times! Steadying Loki’s delicate hand in one of his own; Loki’s shoulder with his other arm, he encourages his brother, “Drink, as the healer commands, brother.”

For whatever complication Loki fears, Eir will be able to sort. Once they are back. Once Loki is safe.

Loki grimaces. “It tastes foul.”

“Drink, regardless.” Thor nudges the bowl meaningfully towards Loki’s lips. Not quite enough to count as a treat to pour it down the youth’s throat, but certainly enough that Loki should see that it’s important he do so.

“Would you believe,” Loki asks, doubtless as a last minute stalling tactic, “that someone once told me this would happen?”

Thor humours him. Just for a moment. “That you’d be struck by an experimental dwarven weapon-” and yes, Thor _will_ be speaking with Eitri about this “-stolen by rebels, and caught up in an unexpected crossfire?”

Caught stepping between Thor and a thrust that Thor had already _seen_ coming; had planned to deflect just a heartbeat later, once done dispatching his existing foe. Loki couldn’t have injured Thor worse if he’d flung his brother onto the blade instead of himself.

Not that Thor will say as much yet. Not with Loki’s condition so unstable. Norns, forbid, but – and this is almost too awful to think – but should Loki fail, should he sicken and die and-

Thor won’t have it be said Loki died needlessly. Even if he would have done. Won’t say that the move was folly; the defence unnecessary. Won’t ever, in a hundred thousand years, risk impinging upon his brother’s chance to have songs sung of him; nor imperil his assent in to Valhalla, ratified as it is by this one, solitary action.

Hels, but Loki’s still so young!

It’s impossible to think of him dying; not when he smiles so wryly. But Thor need only look down to his own clothes, drenched in his brother’s blood, to know how close things have been. How permanent and lasting this wound may yet prove to be.

“Not that. Not with such detail.” Loki says, blood loss leaving him rambling away about matters of little relevance. “Merely that I shouldn’t overreach myself in battle.” Another wry, sad twist to his lips. “That I might damage myself before I reach my full potential.”

It’s like a kick to Thor’s chest. He should have kept Loki safer.

#

He should also have stayed on Vanaheim to oversee the clean-up. That and the interrogations.

Instead he leaves it to Sif. She’s claimed that she wants more opportunity to prove her mettle and, in truth, Thor can’t stomach the idea of turning his back on Loki; not now while he remains so fragile.

So, he leaves Sif with Fandral, and a local general by the name of Hogun, returning to Asgard with Volstagg and the healer. Father will be angry at the break from protocol. Will say Loki’s old enough to weather the healers alone; should have been wise enough to sidestep an enemy’s attack and not _need_ the healers to start with.

Thor will address that argument when it comes. For now he strides besides the litter bearing his brother, one hand resting besides, but not quite touching, Loki’s as he winces and clasps tight to the frame. _But that Thor could take from Loki his hurt! _

Some time during the flash and jolt of the bifrost, Loki must lose consciousness, though for all that Thor keeps his focus pinned to his face, he can’t tell when this occurs. Maybe this is a mercy, when they must race the length of the bridge, surely jolting Loki terribly as they go? Volstagg’s breath draws ragged as they run, but he doesn’t break step as he keeps pace on Loki’s far side; an armed guard unneeded in their safe, home realm.

In too much time and too little time all at once, they are storming through the palace’s echoing hallways, and then, in a snap of clarity, they are at the ever-open doors to Eir’s domain. Tall and thick, a thousand tonnes of granite carved in twisting grace to imitate the plants of healers, the doors stand in oversight to the ward.

It’s only when Thor feels himself tremble does he realises he’s set, in his mind’s eye, these doors as the conclusion of his journey; the finish to his race. He forces himself to carry on, forwards, with the stretcher; walking off the shock much as he would count out his steps at the end of a race. Eir comes, not quite running, but with her long grey robes streaming out behind her.

After that, it’s all Thor can do to stay close by Loki as one healer after another presses him further and further away. Volstagg places a steadying hand on his shoulder. “We should let them have their space to work.” And then, clearly observing that Thor feels no need to leave. “We should notify the queen.”

Loki, surrounded by a flock of healers, is made small. Thor’s only glimpses come, apparently cut up into chunks, from between the bodies of the witches. A hand here, limp with unconsciousness. His leather-clad knee. A boot; thickly smeared with mud. That hand again, though surely now paler?

“You go. I’ll stay.”

There’s a pause. Thor _knows_ that Volstagg must be looking at him; considering what best to do. But for himself, he has no ability to look away from the frantic work around him. He hears one of the healers curse the dwarven blade. Another calls for different healing crystals.

The warmth of Volstagg’s presence fades from Thor’s side. “As you will.” And then he’s gone.

Thor could press forward, but this is not his battle ground. Not a war he can fling himself into the thick of and hope to win the day. No, here he must stand back and let better warriors than he enter the fray.

It’s hard to follow their words. Thor doesn’t really try. Instead he watches the ebb and flow of their activity, waiting for it to ease as their work on his brother nears completion. Yet as he waits and waits, he sees no such change. Rather all the words seem negative: ‘he’s not’ and ‘still falling’ and ‘not stable’, as though, perversely, it were somehow _Loki’s_ fault that their working is not instantaneously accepted.

But it will be. Eir’s the greatest healer in the whole Nine Realms. And Loki is her prince. Loki is young and strong and was breathing perfectly smoothly when Thor came in besides him. So, of course, everything’s going to be fine.

Loki always does hate the healers; says that their working burns him. Just like Loki to play up an injury the better to frighten them all and-

And Thor _is_ frightened, he realises. Deeply, desperately, shakingly frightened. Because this is taking too _long_. Is looking like it’s actually not succeeding, when all that Loki took was a blade to the shoulder. Where the _absolute worst_ should be losing the arm, not losing his life and-

Eir is calling for new herbs; for different ointments from her locked office. No. Just the one tonic. It arrives and she places the small clay vessel to Loki’s lips, hand over the label, and-

It’s clearly an arcane side effect, but Loki’s skin looks lined and blue. Thor steps closer, startled.

“What is that?” And it’s only idle curiosity intended to cut short his panic, until Eir’s fingers seem to tighten as though all the more determined to cover the container’s runes.

“A painkiller, my prince. To sooth him while we work,” she says. The words come easily enough. “Just a different one. Please stand back and give us room.” She hands the small bottle to an aide, who spirits it away, back to Eir’s office.

Eir’s the Realm’s Goddess of Healing. Where Thor treads a path strewn with the dead of their peoples’ enemies, she raises up the sick and makes whole the maimed. Thor has never once had an interest in how she does what she does. So it’s entirely reasonable of her not to tell him what it is that she’s administering. For whenever has he previously cared?

He hasn’t.

There’s nothing suspicious going on.

He just needs to pay attention to his brother.

#

In the end, Thor doesn’t learn all of the details of Loki’s recovery for, shortly after that strange herb’s appearance, his mother arrives and, with a focussed, “Eir, how fairs he? Thor, this is no place for you,” banishes him immediately from the ward.

And so Thor is left to content himself with mere words overheard upon his exit: “Better, my queen. Though we couldn’t stabilise him until-”

Volstagg sighs and gives Thor a companionable pat upon the arm. “Well now. How about we head to that lovely inn of Ilmr’s whilst we wait? We can toast to Loki’s victories and his speedy recovery and thence-”

“No.” He’s not sitting in a pub, toasting to a victory that tastes like ashes in his mouth, while Loki lies so grievously injured.

“Thor.” The old warrior’s voice, when he speaks, is made unfamiliar with caution. “If… _something_ were to befall Loki… We should have the skalds prepare heroic ballads, the better for Valhalla to hear.” Volstagg’s words drop low at the last; Thor’s not fool enough to neglect noting that his friend is troubled.

Maybe Volstagg has a point; he’s certainly bid farewell to his share of comrades. Mayhaps Thor should try to be patient and rational and observe the old customs correctly. It’s just that patience isn’t Thor’s primary virtue. Isn’t any virtue of his at all: this much he knows about himself. Thor can’t bring himself to such passive inaction.

No, his brother has been hurt, and he _must know_ how. Why. So it is that, rather than attend to the skalds, Thor’s first action in passing his indeterminate wait is to command Volstagg back to Vanaheim; his mission to retrieve the blade that hurt Loki. For Thor needs to know what he’s dealing with; what _exactly_ it is that he needs to guard Loki against. Such an injury came from no ordinary blade. So discovering its secrets makes up half of Thor’s resolve.

The second decision he makes is around Eir’s mysterious potion. For it was a draught that both numbed Loki’s pain and stabilised his condition when, to all appearances, he had suffered a truly hideous injury. Thus Thor wants some. True, he wants _more_ for Loki to never henceforth be injured. But life is life and thus leads to harm, war, injury and death. If Thor can offset the last of those with this tonic, no matter how rare or volatile, then it’s something he must get his hands on.

It’s a resolve that comes to him barely as the ringing of Volstagg’s heels fades from the flagstones. He acts upon it as fast.

#

The door to Eir’s private office, unlike that to her more extensive and public domain, is always closed. More to the point, always locked. Thor tries the handle: it merely rattles in his grip. He shakes it, _gently_, to better reveal the susurrating shimmer of Seidr: warded as well as barred.

He could set his shoulder to it. For Eir’s wards are set as a matter of confidentiality extended to her patients, not for national security nor battle preparation. If Thor merely takes out, from the wall, the entirety of door and frame together… But such is not a silent act nor one that will long remain undiscovered.

Thor would rather not face the lashing of his father’s tongue for such vandalism.

So: subtlety then. Maybe if he were to walk around the outside of the building, through the freshly scented gardens, until he happens upon the windows and thence finds one ajar? For, surely even Eir will not have sealed those closed?

Loki would have, if he’d a secret to hide. And Eir’s always cagey over those she heals.

Maybe, if instead Thor were to-

The door opens. Thor finds himself blinking down at Hlifthrasa. The healer’s attention is on her hands, startlingly clean of blood, for all that her smock’s still stained. She’s clutching a handful of papers in her hand. A report of sorts. And, with her attention distracted, she nearly runs into Thor, only dropping into a stumbling bob as she turns to close the door. “Oh! Prince Thor! You startled me.”

“My pardon, Healer Hlifthrasa.” And he should step aside. Only he doesn’t. Behind Hlifthrasa, the door has yet to fully swing shut. If only-

“Can I help you?

The lie leaves his lips, clumsy and half-formed. “I left a… vambrace.” He’s wearing both his vambraces still. “Cloth. A vambrace cloth. Which pads the armour.” Blue fabric’s clearly visible at each wrist, but surely a healer shouldn’t know to check for such? “I have many. A whole collection, though it’s maybe not obvious. And one has fallen. In here. In the office. So I should fetch it. Um…”

Hlifthrasa rests a hand on his wrist. Any moment now, and he’s going to be told just how transparent and dishonourable and-

“Your brother is going to be fine, my prince. Just fine.” Hlifthrasa’s face, when Thor looks down at her, is wan and drawn. “The Lady Eir will set him to rights.” And then, with a kindness that Thor should feel guilty over, considering his deception, she steps to the side. “Go and fetch your cloth. I’ll hold the door for you.”

Thor doesn’t spend a vast chunk of his time inside offices. If he can possibly avoid it, he doesn’t spend a vast chunk of his time inside _anything_. But father has his office of state; and Thor’s been there before; for reprimands and assignments alike. And mother has her receiving chamber; a wide open room full of light and magic. Even Loki’s set up a working space; full of papers and rituals and arcane little treasures.

Of them all, and had Thor of thought on it for a moment, he’d have expected Eir’s space to look, perhaps, most like his brother’s.

Instead it bears closest resemblance to the small corner taken over by the captain of the city’s watch. In short, there’s a lot of paper in far greater order, if more humbly bound, than anything in the king and queen’s respective studies. And there are shelves of substances deemed relevant to the job – though where Forseti has illicit weapons and confiscated contraband too dangerous or whimsical for the general vault, Eir has what must be ointments and potions and little medical contrivances.

And, neatly stoppered on her desk, a familiar vial. Oh, it would be too obvious by half to take the bottle with him. But after one look at the label Thor can commission the purchase of his own and thence maybe redress his woeful neglect of his duty towards-

_Winter’s Shine._

For a moment Thor just looks at the runes, blood frozen every bit as much as it would be should he choose to open the jar and drink of the floral extract within. For Winter’s Shine is a poison, and a nasty one indeed; one known far and wide to coat the victim’s innards with ice, slicing them open from within. By all accounts it’s a hideous death.

And Eir has just fed to her prince this direst of drugs.

#

He must have missed something. For if Loki were dead – poisoned – then surely there’d be more of a fuss?

It’s later, and he’s sitting on the corridor’s floor, waiting to be readmitted to the healing ward. Dimly, through the wall, he can hear the sounds of people moving about. But, closer by far, he can hear his own thoughts running in circles.

Thor’s not sure what, exactly, he said to Hlifthrasa upon exiting Eir’s office. But she neither remarked upon his lack of retrieved cloth, nor attempted to chaise him from the hallway he’s currently haunting. Volstagg has yet to return. Sif and Fandral alike are presumably still busy. So there remains only Thor and his discovery.

He must be mistaken. Must have confused this ‘Winter’s Shine’ which Eir uses to heal for a poison he’d heard of and misremembered the name to. Or perhaps he misread the label; perhaps the poison is Winters’ Shine or Wintershine or. Or-

Yes. That’s clearly it. He has made a mistake. It’s the only explanation.

His fingers trace out the lines between heavy marble flagstones as his mind continues to worry at the discovery.

Just a small error and one that’s all his own.

He’ll be allowed back in to see Loki soon. Mother will be there; Eir too. He’ll tell them of what he’s seen (Or will he? For surely to have knowingly broken into Eir’s office is no small thing to confess.) and everyone will have a good laugh at his ignorance.

Thor almost smiles, imagining the scene. And perhaps it’s that he’s relaxed somewhat that what _must_ be the true explanation dawns over him, bright and warming. For maybe Winter’s Shine is like the venom of the Apophis snake; known to kill a god, if bitten, yet also capable of curing that same ill in the hands of a knowing bushman? Indeed, now that Thor thinks on it, there are many such tales. The Mithridates Rue plant; known to either raise the sick to health or condemn them. The blade of Dyrnwyn; which, when cutting into two beings, will save one and damn the other. Or the waters of Niflheim’s Hvergelmir, ever so fickle.

For Eir couldn’t… She wouldn’t… Not to _Loki._

_No one_ could want to harm Thor’s brother.

#

In the end it takes until dusk before Loki has stabilised and settled to Eir’s satisfaction. And thus it is at dusk that Thor is readmitted to the ward.

Loki, against all odds, appears well in the bed. Or, at any rate, as well as one can appear, when their entire side and arm are swaddled in bandages. His eyes are closed, lost in a drugged sleep, and his breath is slow, but easy. Thor wants to sink down besides the bed and weep; for truly he has been forgiven his oversight and his brother returned to him.

Instead he hovers awkwardly, not sure where to find his place in this scene.

“Why don’t you sit, Thor?” Their mother says, rising calmly from her seat. She’s been working at embroidery, which she now lays aside to beckon him closer. It’s only a small part of Thor’s mind that notes his mother’s task, but it’s a loud part. Thor tries to ignore it, for he’s surely not such a terrible brother as to neglect to look upon Loki for the impact that this skirmish has left upon him?

It might be a small part of Thor’s mind, but Thor’s attention slides once more from his brother to his mother, unease prickling at his spine. For it’s the part of his intuition that spots sneak enemy attacks in battle or the way Fandral will, upon occasion, slip an arm around the waist of a maiden Thor’s been intending to charm. It won’t let his focus leave that needle; the skein of thread; the fabric.

Thor tries to tell himself that surely such stitching is normal; that their mother _likes_ embroidery and-

But it’s a task for long, slow moments, like the sharpening of blades or the rebinding of a weapon’s grip is to Thor. And Thor cannot imagine her sitting here, for hours, sewing happily away while Eir fussed over her failing youngest son. Yet no more can he imagine the alternative: that she’s been sitting here, calmly at her needlework, watching over Loki peacefully asleep, and leaving him to stew in the corridor.

Disconnect noted, Thor finds himself able to justify and thus put it aside. For maybe she only took up the task in the moments that he was being summoned? Truly, it’s been a hideous day, and Thor’s thoughts are all over the place. What _exactly_ is it that he suspects his mother of here?

“Tell me,” he manages, as he takes the vacated seat, “how does my brother?”

#

Loki does ill, though Thor fears he himself will not escape unscathed following an audience with their father. Odin is incensed by Thor’s dereliction of post; by Loki’s ‘ineptitude’ in battle; by Eir and his queen’s folly in permitting Thor to linger in the healing wards when his time would be better spent reporting to his king. The Einherjar in the otherwise emptied audience chamber are tense; poised to action.

Thor bites his tongue and bows his head. Is distantly grateful that he has sent Volstagg away, the better to evade the Allfather’s wrath. Is briefly worried that Sif will catch some of the recoil from this, when Odin, upon being told in just who’s capable hands the wrap-up has been left, snaps, “You should never have left her there. There’s no place for women in battle.”

Startled, Thor can’t help but rise to his friend’s defence. “Sif’s brilliant.” And what of the Valkyrie of legend?

But Odin dismisses his defence with a waved hand. “Nonsense. They’re too violent. Too hungry for blood. Better by far to have men on the field.”

Which Thor _most definitely_ is never relaying to Sif. “The battle was over, father.”

For a moment Thor thinks that he’s triggered something dangerous; that his counter-argument, weak though it feels as it passes over his lips, will somehow read to his father as defiance. Yet, after a charged moment, the Allfather’s rage seems to ebb. He sighs and leans back in his throne. The Einherjar relax. “Well, you have the good instincts to have left Fandral to oversee her, at least,” though that is far from the reason that Thor had left them together.

No, he’s not shaming his friends by confessing he’d feared to leave either one of his sworn companions alone on the cooling field of war. Fandral might laugh it off, but Sif would never forgive him. And the shame of his doubt would linger forever: on them and on him alike.

“And your brother?” His father finally deems to ask. “How fairs he?”

Arm half-lost, though hopefully redeemable. Weakened until unconsciousness with blood-loss. And tiny; fragile; in need of care and caution.

Once Thor would not have hesitated to spill such fears to his father. But of late it is as though a veil has been lifted from his eyes revealing a world both darker and more glitteringly dangerous than he’d believed it to be; leaving him ever looking for treachery and harm beneath the idyll. Now this paranoia seems to whisper to him: What use has Odin Allfather, God of War, King of the Nine Realms, for a crippled son?

“He will be well, father,” Thor says. “Though it might take some time.”

“Good.” Odin’s frame eases still further. “Good. And see! What a vague report you have, despite all of the time you spent at his side! This is why there’s no point to lingering with the women and the wailing, Thor. Your brother will be back, hale and hearty soon. Better to wait until you can see him up and on his own two feet, strong again, than to look upon him so damaged and laid low.”

_And what if Loki had died?_ Thor wants to ask. What if Thor had never chanced to look upon him again this side of the divide between life and death? (What if, due to lack of Loki’s battle prowess, Thor never saw his sibling ever again, in Asgard or in the great halls of Valhalla alike?)

Yet looking upon his father, it comes to Thor that he means his words as solid and caring advice. That their father _knows_ that warriors die; has lost those he’s loved himself. And that he recommends not contaminating the memories of their heroic vigour in life with the shell that sickness and harm have made of them.

Maybe that has always worked well for Odin Allfather. It’s just that Thor’s not certain he could live with himself; not if he left those he loved to die uncomforted.

Thor’s beginning to suspect, Friggason’s clear example aside, that he’s not such a perfect Asgardian as everyone assumes.

A raven soars into the great hall. Settles upon the Allfather’s shoulder. The king’s eyes, always knowing, appear briefly distracted. Then he looks upon Thor. “Your companions return. You should go to them.” And, with a nod at the hammer Thor carries always. “Your actions came close to proving you unworthy today, my son. Always remember that your first commitment must be to honour. Don’t ever prove yourself unequal to Mjolnir.”

#

Thor’s still unnerved at the time he meets up with his companions. They are accompanied by the Vanir general. Truly, never before has his father implied that he is to be found wanting. And so he is quiet and uncertain as he leads them to the cluster of rooms he occupies within his father’s hall.

It’s an uncertainty that lasts all of a heartbeat after the doors have swung shut, for then he is looking upon something that he has never beheld before: a sword, gleaming with midnight, bared gingerly from the cloth that’s wrapped it by a nervous looking Fandral. “I think it’s cursed,” he says. “It hums when you touch it.”

“Hums?” Thor regards the blade. “Has anyone checked it for curses?”

“A local wise woman, my prince,” General Hogun says. “Though she could say only that it brought near certain death.”

_Near certain death?_ Well, that fit closely enough to the harm Thor has seen wrought upon his brother. “How so? From a poison? Or is it the metal itself? What is it made from?” For it looks nothing like the normal weapons of the dwarves.

Hogun shakes his head, “She could not say the nature of the curse, my prince. Merely that one existed. That a wound taken would manifest as its most horrific of possibilities.”

Thor’s blood runs cold. All of his assurances that Loki will recover seem doomed. And thence what will their father say?

Yet it is more than that. A cursed blade. A noxious poison. Just what dark force is it that’s moving against Loki?

“We will have the royal Seidr weavers look into it.” Thor determines. Normally this is where he would turn, first of all, to Loki. But today…? “Fandral, if you would escort General Hogun and the blade to the Weapons’ Vault and thence summon the weavers? I would like further information as soon as is possible.”

“Of course,” Fandral’s grip is a steadying warmth on Thor’s shoulder. Hogun bows crisply. The two warriors exit the room leaving Thor with Volstagg and Sif; two people he should be able to trust beyond any others.

For a moment he’s left looking at them, considering. And there must be something strange in his gaze, for Sif says, “Thor?” and makes his name a gentle question.

Thor doesn’t know what to say to them. Not about the Winter’s Shine nor this strange and cursed blade.

“Thor? Is Loki…?” Sif’s face is troubled. It’s no news that she and Loki often find themselves at odds. Thor would love to know the root of their discontent, but suspects it’s as ill-defined as the source of his love for his family, or for the easy camaraderie he shares with his cohort: a chance fitting of personalities.

“He’s-” _well_, is the word Thor wishes to use to conclude his report, instead his throat clenches, choking himself off.

Sif’s face falls and she trades an uneasy look with Volstagg. Thus it is Volstagg who aims for easy cheer, booming out, “I’m sure he will pull through. There’s always more fight in him that there looks to be, skin and bones as he is.”

“Quite.” Sif’s aiming for disapproving, but mostly sounds relieved to have Volstagg’s certainty to follow. “He’s far too vexing a person to perish just because an enemy wished it so.”

“Lady Sif!” Volstagg manages to sound disapproving at such blithe condemnation, but for himself Thor feels something ease in his chest. For Sif truly _doesn’t_ sound aggrieved at Loki’s likely recovery and thus she _must_ be perfectly safe to trust with the one task Thor can’t yet put his mind to:

“Could you sit with him?” For if Odin is so truly convinced that the healers’ halls are the women’s realm, then maybe Thor can work with that.

Sif blinks, clearly startled. “Sit? With Loki?” Her eyes glide to Volstagg and back to Thor and, upon returning, Thor realises that he can see ire rising in her gaze; irritation at being asked, _yet again_, to be _other_ than the warriors Thor works with.

And this is where Thor would normally backtrack. Would feel the shame at having treated one companion differently to another and, more to the point, in a manner that they find distasteful.

But not today. Not where Loki’s well-being is at stake. “Please.” And it’s hard to beg, even of Sif, one of his oldest friends. “I’ve already been barred,” an exaggeration, for his mother had let him return once Loki had stabilised, but maybe not as much of one as Thor would like considering his father’s opinions. “And they’d never let Volstagg in.”

“I’m not sure that I’m-” But Sif’s irritation is wavering, and Thor knows that, in just a moment more, she will capitulate to his manipulations. Is this how Loki feels all of the time?

#

How Loki feels about deception is one thing; something Thor can never be certain about. How he feels about libraries is quite another.

Thor wishes he could summon half of his brother’s love for the written word; or, at any rate, a passing familiarity with the filing system.

Instead, he enters the main library with dread decision and there he stalls.

“Can I help you, my prince?”

Turning, Thor realises that one of the library’s attendants, a young woman in a green gown, her hair up in the braids of an unwed maiden, has approached him. Her smile is kind, but there’s confusion on her face, as though wondering what strange happenstance has brought him to trespass in such a space.

“Um. I’m looking, well, for a book.” Thor drags his hand through his hair. “Obviously a book. I’m in a library and-”

Unlike Hlifthrasa, the attendant isn’t rushing to help save him from himself. Rather her expression grows deeply more sceptical as though wondering whether perhaps her future king has taken a blow to his head, or merely suffers a more permanent form of foolishness. “And what book would that be?” She hedges after a length. “The tactical and military history section is-”

“Yes. I know where they are.” They’re the only books Thor’s ever seen much point in seeking out, and it’s rather insulting that she would assume that he’s forgotten their location since his last journey a decade or so ago.

Then he realises how rudely he must have come across. “What I mean to say is that I’m looking for healing texts. Not my usual books.”

“Healing texts?” But no matter how startled the maiden sounds, at least she’s starting to guide him into the library. And they’re not heading towards the large north-facing wing where the battles of old are housed. So she’s presumably taking him in the direction he wants to go, regardless of her assessment of his actual sanity.

Thor trudges along behind her, trying briefly to see if there is an underlying pattern to the shelves, alcoves and chambers that they pass, but gives it up quickly as a futile effort. They enter a new wing of the library, and here the attendant stops. Thor looks at the various rooms running off the hallway.

“Which door?” He asks, only to be met with a deeply unimpressed:

“Why, all of them, my prince.”

It would appear that there are far, far more books on reassembling a body than on dismembering one.

“Ah. Thank you.” Really, he should swallow his pride and ask for further assistance. Thor knows this. Some small, exasperated part of his mind tells him that Loki’s health is of more pressing concern than one mere library attendant’s opinion of her prince. It’s just that it’s hard to remember this, when being looked at as though one is a small, misbehaving child. “Right then. Perfect.” He opens the nearest door. “Thanks.” Steps through it, closes the door behind him, leans back on it for good measure, and then lets himself look at the rows and stacks and layers of books before him with something approaching despair.

He’s going to be here forever!

About an hour later he’s contented himself that the first room is not relevant to his search, focussing as it does on the anatomy of various beings across the Realms, and so has ventured into the second room. This one appears to house ‘pestilence’. Also an acolyte of the healing halls.

Thor almost walks straight back out of the room, the better not to have another awkward conversation.

Instead he reminds himself of Loki, pale and trying to joke while his blood ran thickly into the churned earth of the battle field. “Excuse me, healer.”

The woman looks up from the scroll she’s studying. “Yes, my prince?” And she has Eir’s manner; that look which says that Thor might be royalty, but that she’s seen the insides of too many beings, royal and common alike, to put much stock in that.

In short, she sounds like she knows what she’s doing. Something in Thor eases. “I have a foolish question.” He tries to smile disarmingly, and isn’t too bothered when the acolyte continues to regard him with warm indifference. “I’m looking for books on herb craft.”

“Herb craft?” One arched brow. “Down the hall, turn left, second door on the right.” And then, before Thor can thank her and make his escape, “What manner of herb craft?”

Maybe he should be subtle but, if he’s correct in his justifications of Eir’s actions, then where’s the harm in anyone knowing that he’s looking for a drug to aid his brother? And if he’s wrong? Well then, it’s an error best quickly cleared up. “It’s about the herb Winter’s Shine.”

“Winter’s Shine?” The acolyte asks, head tilted and lips smiling, friendly but puzzled non-the-less. “There’s nothing much to be said of it. It’s a dreadful toxin.”

“But…” Thor flails for words. Tries to find a way to ask, without actually asking, what it is that he needs to know. “Isn’t there, well, a good use for it?”

The woman laughs, a quiet sound, perfectly pitched for the silence of the library, yet one rich in humour for all of that. “Not unless you’ve an Aesir you wish to assassinate.”

#

Thor leaves the library shaken and striving not to show it.

For a moment he considers returning to see Loki. Or, considering that Eir has administered a poison, should that be ‘oversee Loki’, the better to ensure his good medical care and-

Maybe the bottle was simply mislabelled?

It’s enough to make Thor want to laugh, though certainly not with delight. For what manner of healer would mislabel a painkiller as poison?

Of course, there is still one more person with whom Thor could speak. One expert in the raising and usage of plants. And one with an interest in Loki’s good treatment: their mother.

#

Asgard’s Queen, the Allmother and Thor’s mother, is in her gardens, tending to some mint when Thor finds her. She’s a small basket over one arm, for all that the girl following her – an attendant looking to gain position in the queen’s circle – could have carried it for her. As she kneels, she cuts small tips from the plant, fingers deft with a small knife.

She notices Thor almost instantly, sitting back on her heals, and smiling over at him.

It’s as though the sun washes over Thor; chasing his fears away.

“Mother.”

And she rises easily to meet him and his embrace. “My son.”

For a moment, here, with her arms around him, the sun warm on his head, and the scent of blooming roses thick in the air, Thor can almost believe that he’s surfacing from a bad dream. Which is when his mother says, “Are you well? You look troubled.” And her hands, though they are gentle as they sooth his hair back from his face, seem to return with them all of his fear and uncertainty.

“Mother, I _am_ troubled.” The words slip out; the search for reassurance impossible to outweigh with mere caution. “For I have witnessed something terrible.” He pauses. How best to outline Eir’s potential betrayal?

“Oh, Thor.” Her hands are light on his face. “I know that what has happened with Loki has startled you, but you must understand that it’s part and parcel of growing up. You yourself have been injured many times.”

_Though never so grievously_. But Thor does not say this. For it is not the point that he wishes to make. “Mother, Eir gave Loki poison.” And then, more clearly because his mother is only frowning, confused, “She gave him Winter’s Shine.”

Her face goes pale. “Gave Loki Winter’s Shine? You _saw_ this?”

“_Yes_.” Thor agrees emphatically, even as his heart thuds alarmingly. For if mother looks so haunted, then surely it’s a dreadful poison and-

“You must be mistaken.” She says, leaning in closer. Her hands slide over his; a warm comfort. “For Winter’s Shine would take action instantly, my son. And your brother would be dead.”

_But-_

The protest is on the edge of Thor’s lips. And then he sees his mother’s eyes; the shade of fear to them.

His protest dies unspoken.

“I see.” He makes himself smile. Can’t imagine that it’s in any way believable.

“Oh, Love.” And a kiss is pressed, gentle and reassuring, to his brow. “Don’t worry so. Loki is in good hands and will recover shortly.”

Loki: Thor’s brother and the God of Tricks. All Thor’s exposure to Asgard’s greatest misguider, yet their mother thinks him incapable of spotting a lie.

#

Spotting a lie is one thing; determining the manner of the lie quite another. In part, Thor is limited by the simple facts of the situation. That Loki was administered a horrible poison, has somehow survived, and that everyone is covering this up. The lie must fall somewhere within this chain, yet Thor knows not where.

Maybe it is that the poison is no poison at all; that Winter’s Shine has _never_ held the power to slay the Aesir? Though why would anyone fear _that_ truth? Is such a false weakness one perpetuated by their father, the better to ensure that assassination attempts fail?

But then why would his mother not simply tell this to him?

Or maybe it’s the luck of the other healing herbs Loki had taken that caused him to survive the poison? Perhaps Eir made a terrible mistake, and one that mother wishes to downplay and thence address with the healer in private?

But to keep secret a hazard to her own son’s life? Impossible.

Unless, somehow, they _intended_ to kill Loki. The thought sickens Thor. For as hideous and impossible as the idea is, it’s the only one that fits the facts.

Not that mother and Eir are seeking to assassinate Loki, of course. They could never conceive of a plot so foul! But maybe they have been replaced by impersonators, or placed under some dark and vile enchantment?

Because, of course, if an enemy of Asgard wished to hurt the throne, then they’d reach out for Loki. Loki, who is bright and smart; the vibrant, planning, plotting intelligence who will guide the Realms wisely after the days of their father. Thor might well become king, but in the absence of Loki’s wit? What use is one strong in the arm, but less so in the head?

Yet if Thor’s conjecture is true and Asgard’s queen is compromised…? If Thor’s mother, as well as his brother, is in peril?

There’s only one person to turn to.

#

With such a possibility of treason, Thor should head straight to his father. Instead he cannot help but divert via the wards. Just for a moment. Just for reassurance.

Loki is flat out on his back, the light from the bay window above leaving him more washed out and drawn than ever.

Sif, sitting besides the bed, appears both bored and murderous. She’s sharpening a blade, clearly relishing the disapproving looks that the healers throw her. She is so utterly, perfectly, murderously dangerous that Thor cannot help himself and pulls her into a hug. “Thank you so, so much for this.”

Sif goes stiff and startled in his arms. Then, hesitantly, pulls away. Her face is flushed and she refuses to look directly at him. “Just so long as you remember that you owe me.”

#

It’s harder with father. Thor takes care to be more circumspect than when speaking to the one wearing his mother’s face. “Have you noticed, father, anything out of order with mother of late? Only she seemed…”

“Your mother?” Odin is never startled; not by anything. But his eyebrow rises as though to reproach Thor for such a foolish question. “Whatever are you harping on about? She is perfectly fine, boy. Which is more than I can say for you, considering your recent, unfocussed gadding about.”

#

Such a call to duty reminds Thor of battle, and battle reminds him of the blade. Stuck on one tack of his investigation, he reminds himself that there is, as of yet, a second tack he can take: the cursed sword.

The Weapons Vault, where all hazards are stored awaiting evaluation, is guarded when he reaches it. It always is. Yet it is the very normalcy of the scene which slows Thor’s steps to a confused stop. For where are the witches gifted with discerning the truth? Fandral will surely have notified the royal Seidr weavers. And, with a weapon such as this strange one they have found, then surely several weavers should be in and out of the door; deep in their investigations? Can they truly have finished so quickly?

Thor finishes his journey to the watch leader with alarm, tingling and static, dancing along his nerves. “I need to retrieve the blade deposited here not long ago by Fandral the Dashing.

“A blade?” The watch leader glances at his companion as though for confirmation, then says, “No blade was delivered here, my prince.” His eyes are bright and guileless and, looking at him, Thor utterly believes that he is being told the truth, even as he _knows_ that this cannot be so.

“No blade?” He repeats dully.

“No, my prince.” If the watch leader thinks anything strange in their exchange, it does not show upon his face and Thor suffers the terrible, though thankfully brief, conviction that he is losing his mind.

Clearly the blade never reached the Weapons Vault. For only his father could have ordered it gone and the very Einherjar to lie about it. And there is no reason that Thor can see for his father to have commanded as such.

So the black blade disappeared before being safely deposited; likely without being seen by the witches either. Thor will get no more answers about the sword, he realises heart-sick, than those he discerned himself in the moment that Sif, the Warriors Two and the Vanir General had brought it before him.

Yet however did it vanish? What treachery is in play?

Maybe if it had been delivered by the General, Hogun, alone, then Thor could have imagined it. But not Fandral. He’s known Fandral longer than anyone. Longer than Sif, longer than Volstagg. Longer even than Loki. Why! Thor can remember coming into the nursery, flushed from playing chaise with his friend, to have his mother stop and calm him and hand him his new brother!

“My prince? Is there anything more?”

“No.” As if in a daze, Thor realises that he should depart. For, truly, to loiter with idle indifference before such a sensitive location is much disapproved of, even for one of the heirs of Odin himself. “Nothing more. Good day.”

#

Thor returns to the library, because he can think of nothing else to do. Walks to the healing wing, all the way to the end of the hell, before turning left and taking the second door on the right. Sunlight is shining, low and red-tinted with evening, through a long bank of windows.

He looks around the many shelves. Wonders how much time this will take. And then he picks up the nearest text.

Contrary to popular opinion, Thor is not a total stranger to books. He’s come across indexes before; aye, that and the art of flicking through the pictures. It doesn’t take him long to find the five books on the first shelves with references to the poisoned herb. He carries the books to a small table below the bay windows. Puts them down. Sits himself down. Picks up the first book.

Winter’s Shine is a small, white, five-petalled plant that grows on Jotunheim. It flowers all year round, and thrives best near to the frozen realm’s seas. It does not produce much oil per flower, and many thousands of flowers must be collected for a single drop of the toxin. It is utterly lethal to the Aesir if swallowed, inhaled or injected. Even skin contact can, in sufficient quantities and of prolonged duration, lead to death.

It is not a pretty death. Thor doesn’t look at those illustrations long. Doesn’t think even his woeful negligence towards his younger brother’s first battle deserves the punishment of imagining Loki’s face upon those victims.

Truthfully, there’s little information in the first book, and the second text is no better, repeating, as it does, all that was said before. The third book is lighter in content and the forth doesn’t do more than name the plant among a more general list of poisons.

The fifth book has little text, but a great many horrific illustrations.

Thor is glad to return them all to their shelf and restart his investigations on the shelves below.

If, as he’d hunted, he’d stopped to consider exactly what information it is that he is after, Thor probably couldn’t have given a clear answer. Is he looking for some mitigating factor to the poison? Or maybe some alternative use of the plant? Perhaps for a note that reads ‘actually, all that went before is simple misunderstanding’?

It takes him three bookcases (only twenty seven books, though) to realise exactly what it is that he is _not_ seeing. Never, in a single one of the illustrations, graphic and distressing though they are, does the victim’s skin change hue.

Thor rocks back in his chair. Picks up the last book and flicks through it. Then the proceeding one. Another, another, another. All the same images; of ice and blood and slithers of internal organs which really shouldn’t be seen through skin. But never, ever, blue. Never beautiful, graceful lines across the skin.

It cannot mean anything.

And then he finds the books on _growing_ herbs.

The section on Winter’s Shine is very short, most likely due to the fact that Asgard is simply too _warm_ for it to thrive. But where the text is near non-existent, there has been included a picture, chosen and retained doubtless for the pastoral pleasantness of a maiden, out in the wilderness amongst snowdrifts, gathering flowers in the folds of her apron.

Thor closes the book. Closes his eyes. Tries to still his shaking hands.

He’s just being foolish. There’s no possible chance that his wild imaginings are in any way true. Because it doesn’t make sense. And if it _is_ true, well, it’s the type of secret that Thor’s not meant to be smart enough to uncover.

But, of course, it’s just not true. Loki’s Thor’s _brother_. They share a mother. A father. A blood.

_But what if it_ were _true?_ Whispers the checking-for-double-crossing part of his mind. Because if Loki _were_… then… Well. Then. For Winter’s Shine is only listed, over and over again and in every single text, as a poison to the _Aesir_ (though surely that’s just because Thor’s sitting in an _Aesir_ library). And Loki’s skin had changed colour (but he’d been doused in more magics and herbs than a solstice sacrifice). And there had been all of that time mother had been embroidering at Loki’s bedside, making Thor wait outside (for the herb to wear off)! But she _wouldn’t_ have done that; not kept a lie like that.

Except maybe she did. Maybe they all did.

With shaking fingers, Thor reopens the book. Looks the text: Distilled from the flower, and widely used as a poison among various species, but grown on Jotunheim to heal her warriors.

And, on the facing page, a painted image of the blue-skinned, kin-lined Jotunn maid. Harvesting such flowers. Happily licking her fingers.

#

For a long time after he’s found what he’d looking for, Thor remains seated at the tiny table. His hands rest, almost unnaturally still, upon the closed cover of the book as though trying to hide any trace of it. Hide the book, not just from the room, but from himself.

He wonders how Loki can bear to seek out secrets, when the revelation of this one leaves Thor sick and shaking to his belly. If the Norns could see fit to scrape the last few hours out of his memory, then he’d be very grateful, thank you. And so he sits for a moment as if to give them the opportunity.

They don’t take it.

But the pause _does_ give Thor opportunity to focus on keeping his breathing steady. Then he tries to figure out what he’s even meant to _do_ with this knowledge.

In the end he does what he always does with a puzzle; he takes it to Loki.

#

Loki, for the first time since that _disastrous_ moment on Vanaheim, is awake and alert. His lips curve into a smile when Thor opens the door, and he’s halfway through, “She is the _worst_ nursemaid, you know. Utterly-” when something about Thor’s face must give him pause.

Sif is asleep by the bed. There’s a healer in the little office overlooking the room. This is a terrible place for a deep and meaningful conversation.

With no spare seat, Thor sinks on to the side of Loki’s bed and, unable to help himself, leans forward and kisses his brother square on the forehead. Loki squawks, presumably outraged by this. “I’m not _that_ hurt.”

He is. He was. Thor’s still got no idea how long it will take for Loki’s arm to heal.

And none of that is relevant right now.

“Loki. Brother. I think I’ve found something out.” And, Norns bless him, but Thor can _see_ Loki’s sarcastic retort coming. He heads it off: “About you.”

Loki stills. “What about me?” He sounds very brittle all of a sudden, and Thor can see suspicion floating about on his face.

_He already knows_, Thor thinks, at the same time as, _Not_ this _he doesn’t_.

Thor’s squabbled with Loki, trained with him, feasted with him, generally spent centuries _living_ with his brother. Hunting, dancing, laughing, fighting. If Loki knew what Thor _thinks_ it is that he’s discovered, then Thor would _know_.

Whatever suspicions Loki has about whatever it is that he thinks might be behind Thor’s words, it won’t be this.

Thor slides his hand into Loki’s and holds on tight. “Brother. You know that I love you? And that you always have been, and always will be, my favourite person, no matter what? That we’re going to rule Asgard together, side by side?”

“Thor.” Loki’s face is pale. He’s sick and he’s ill and if Thor didn’t think that withholding this secret from his brother would cause more hurt in the long run, he’d leave the room immediately. “Honestly. You’re scaring me. Just spit it out.”

“What do you know about Winter’s Shine?”

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a follow on story to cover (some of) the fall out…


End file.
